Her Undoing
by darkthinks
Summary: Dark! Hermione. She goes back in time to destroy him, but she ends up destroying everything she knew about herself. Tomione.
1. Chapter 1

When she was young, her mother had warned her about the devil.

He had infinite forms, she said; he could be a doll come alive to whisper sweet malice in her ear, or a bird fluttering smoothly by with the breeze, or a serpent hissing promises of arcane knowledge if she only reached out and took a bite of his proffered fruit. Or, she told Hermione finally, he could even be her own image in the mirror, reflected so that her thoughts (dreamy and innocent though they were) twisted perversely to manipulate her into wicked deeds only the worst sinners would be capable of.

There was one truth her mother conceded to: the devil could not be trusted. And as long as she didn't come to believe in him or allow herself to stray from her own natural goodness to sympathize with his carnal lies, she would be safe.

It was with this thought in mind that Hermione approached the top of the dim, spiraling staircase that led to Albus Dumbledore's office. The air here was stale. She breathed in slow and deep to a count of five, but this calculated inhale did little to calm her precipitous heartbeat. Her hands were slick, as they were wont to be, and she anxiously rubbed the sweat off on her robes.

After another calming breath, she knocked on the heavy-handled oaken double doors separating her from her former headmaster.

"Come in," his voice called, more solemn than she had remembered it.

Hermione slid open the doors and closed them behind her as she walked, gait heavy, into his office. It was larger and darker than she had imagined it; she had only Harry's hurried descriptions to compare the vision to. He had told her it was small and cluttered and bright, magical and enchanted objects overflowing from every cupboard. With every step, he had said there would be a new trinket glimmering to catch her eye, and when he had last been here, he had told her Fawkes crooned a fiery song at him from his cage.

Now, Fawkes was dead. The rumors were that he had soared out of the office on a rainy day and fell in a dancing flurry of feathers to the ground. Some thought the bird had committed suicide.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," she addressed him, her voice raspier than she intended.

He looked up over the top of his thin, wiry glasses, blue eyes settling on a spot midway down the bridge of her nose. She noticed he had acquired a few more age spots over the time she had not seen him; his skin now seemed spotted and fragile, like aged leopard hide. He looked tired, though his eyes had now lazily flicked up to stare at her own and she realized that, despite everything he had been through, they still shone soft and bright as the stars in the night sky.

"There is no need for such formalities, Miss Granger," responded Dumbledore. His tone was not unkind. "I am your headmaster no longer."

"Forgive me, sir, but some things I find I cannot part with. Addressing my headmaster as such is, well..."

He brushed her off with a wave of his hand, which, she saw, was shaking. She could not see his other hand and assumed it had turned as blackened as she feared. When she sat down, Hermione closed her eyes and could not bear to look at him. Though they said nothing for a few moments, the air around them turned melancholy. There was no use in pretending now.

They both knew why she came.

When she opened her eyes, she looked straight into his unsmiling, wizened features and nodded her head numbly up and down, her neck a metronome.

"When did it happen?" he asked her then, sliding a glass jar half-full of candies to her side.

Hermione sighed before answering. "Two days ago." She reached absently for one of the gently wrapped sweets before abruptly placing her hand back on the arm of her chair. Her grip was iron. "We were returning from Grimmauld Place."

At Dumbledore's questioning look, she continued, "We had only planned to stay there for a day or two, no more, but the months of running and sleeping on our backs in a tent had left us longing for some stove-cooked food, beds. Something to remind us that we were human, really, not just animals hiding from our captors. And we couldn't decide where next to look; Harry wanted to go to Gringotts first, but I said that was too risky to try without a solid plan. We were tired. Nobody argued. We spent five days there until we knew we finally had to leave.

"So we Apparated to a clearing, one where I thought we would be safe." She paused then, gulping down saliva, or worry, or bile that would corrode in her guts. "I had been there as a child a couple times with my parents, and Harry and Ron and I had stayed there before. I thought that no wizard would approach it, or at least no Dark wizard, but when we got there a werewolf pack was waiting for us.

I have no idea how they found us, what they could have possibly used, but I terribly miscalculated, Headmaster. I made the most awful mistake," said Hermione, ignoring the pitying look Dumbledore sent her way. Instead, she continued, speaking through the stinging in her eyes, "I had Apparated at night, thinking it would be easier to disguise ourselves, but two nights ago, unbeknown to me, there was a full moon."

Dumbledore's face remained impassive, but he was no fool. He knew how this story would end.

"Merlin... I was so tired, too. Sir, Dumbledore, I was so tired, so unprepared. When they attacked, we didn't stand a chance. They were so fast and so ferocious, like they were rabid, like they were dark creatures so far from human. They did not use the Wolfsbane, or otherwise they relish in it, this... terrifying wildness in them.

"We fought them best we could, but it was dark and cold and when I heard their howls wane I realized they were dragging someone into the forest. I couldn't tell, then, whether it was Harry or Ron, and I ran after them, but even with my strongest Lumos I couldn't see far ahead of me, and when I reached them they ran away, taking... a body with them. I caught a glimpse of the back of his head before they pounced off, and the hair... it was black.

"I tried to run after them, but my leg snagged on something as I chased them, and I fell head-first on the forest floor. I woke up in the morning. As soon as I did, I realized I was separated from my friends and that one of them was likely bitten, or dead, or worse, and I didn't wait to learn which one. I realized I had to notify you, but it took me two days to get here."

She paused then, to collect her thoughts and to wipe her wet hands on her thighs. "Dumbledore, it had to have been Harry." She looked down. "I know werewolves don't often remember their transformations if they aren't on Wolfsbane, and I don't know what state they left him in, but I know it couldn't have been good. I only hope they didn't recognize him, or that they weren't affiliated with Voldemort, but -"

Hermione's head fell limp onto her hands. "It's useless. We've failed."

When she finally garnered enough courage to look up, Dumbledore's face looked as if he had aged another five years. If she were completely honest with herself, she would have said she was surprised he had held out as long as he had. After sending herself and the others on a dangerous mission to defeat Voldemort's horcruxes midway through their sixth year, Hermione believed she would not see him for much longer. At one time, he had, to her, seemed ageless, an old man perpetually in his seventies, wise and powerful.

Now, she knew better. She had never idolized him as Harry had, but now whatever heroism she once found in him had been tamped out by age and experience; she trusted him only to do what was best for the outcome of the war. Sometimes, when she was awake alone in their tent, Hermione would look around at her friends and wonder if Dumbledore cared for any of them at all as anything other than pawns in his game.

Still, he had not fared well with the advent of the second war, and as she looked at him, she realized he understood that better than anyone.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, Miss Granger," he stated, his expression grim, "but there is hope yet."

"What do you mean? The Prophecy stated... well, you know what the Prophecy stated, and if Harry is dead, then there is only one other conclusion."

She didn't want to say it out loud because the thought was horrendous, but she was certain Dumbledore knew which conclusion she meant.

"There is another way."

Dumbledore stood slowly and made his way to a stand on which she thought, in another time, Fawkes's cage might have perched. He conjured a rusted key with his wand and touched the key to the third drawer on the stand, which opened unceremoniously.

After shuffling its contents for a minute, Dumbledore cradled an object small enough to be hidden in his hand before walking back to sit, once again, on his chair.

"It will require great strength and clear resolve," he stated, eyes like headlights glaring right at her.

"Headmaster, I don't understand what you're trying to impress upon me, but if it means defeating Voldemort then..."

"Miss Granger, it means making sure Voldemort never existed."

Hermione shook her head warily, furrowing her eyebrows. "I'm not sure what you mean. If I heard you correctly, sir, then what you are suggesting is impossible, unless you were referring to time travel, but... time travel is a closed loop. Everything that was meant to happen will happen and everything that has already happened was destined to happen. We can do nothing to will Voldemort out of existence, let alone erase everything that has occurred up to this point."

Dumbledore smiled at her then, the twinkle setting his eyes alight once again. "Yes, time travel magic as most understand it has been exactly that, but what I hold in my hands now is something different altogether. This is very, very old magic, Miss Granger."

He unclasped his hands as if unwrapping a present and let the object dangle from the tips of his unblackened fingers. Rocking back and forth in his grasp was a bronze chain, the links fastidiously tied together, with a clock hanging from its center. There were no hands on the clock, no Arabic numbers; two Roman numerals instead, I and II, marked the twelve o'clock and six o'clock times on a normal watch.

Even from a foot away, Hermione sensed the magical significance of it. She had never seen anything like this, though she had spent a year using a time turner and reading every book in the Hogwarts library on time travel; this looked archaic.

"This amulet is very powerful," Dumbledore cautioned, his voice gentle, "and it must never fall into the wrong hands. I admit I have never used it before, but I know how it must work. It latches onto the wearer's thoughts," he looked directly into her eyes, "and it takes them where they wish to go. The laws of our universe do not apply."

"H-how? How is that possible? How does this exist?"

"This has been passed down from one headmaster of Hogwarts to the next. Legend has it Rowena Ravenclaw herself enchanted it. I have never seen anything else like it."

Hermione's mouth agape, she yearned to stretch farther and snatch the amulet from Dumbledore's hands. This was the sort of knowledge she had always yearned for, the bookworm in her, though with a wan smile she realized this knowledge would no longer be of use in their world. With Harry gone, Voldemort would be emboldened to grab hold of more power and possibly even unseat Dumbledore in Hogwarts. Nowhere was safe. The Death Eaters had no use for masterful work like this other than to destroy it, to set fire to whatever stray flickers of hope in the hearts and minds of the people. This was why she had come here: to let Dumbledore know she was prepared to admit defeat.

"Miss Granger, listen to me. You must use this to go back in time, to when Voldemort was a child."

With these words, Hermione's head snapped up abruptly and the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach escalated, as if she were on a Muggle roller coaster and only seconds away from dropping.

"If what you say about Harry is true, this is the only way we can make sure of his destruction," Dumbledore sounded sepulchral. "When Voldemort was young, he was still vulnerable."

Though her head felt hazy, Hermione found herself nodding.

Dumbledore returned her gesture and continued. "However, because I have no personal experience with it and because, as far as I am aware, it has never been used before, I cannot be sure whether it was meant for multiple uses. By that, I mean I do not know the user will be able to return to their original time."

Glancing down at it with reverence, Dumbledore caressed the smooth metal before muttering, "I would use it myself if I had not been alive and in contact with Voldemort, with Tom Riddle, at that time. Even with this magic, I do not think the universe would be able to fare with duplicates of the same person."

With that, Hermione's head jolted up. He meant for her to use it, then.

"Headmaster, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yes, Miss Granger," he stated, his expression unreadable.

She might not be able to return.

If circumstances were different, and if she were not so tired, Hermione would turn away from her former headmaster and Apparate to a clean elsewhere. Anywhere. She remembered her parent's house, and the room in which she spent so much of her childhood, whiling her time away with books on fantastical creatures and mathematics and Muggle history. She remembered her mother's laugh, her superstitious nature, the tales she would weave to entertain her.

Her parents didn't know her anymore. Even if the war was won, they would spend the rest of their time with each other in Australia, effectively childless.

She thought of Ron: the way he called her name, the happy sounds he made when he stuffed his face with food, the tense exchanges they had had these past few months. She remembered the way he blushed when she came near him and the firmness with which they hugged. When she was younger, she would think about her life after graduation, and in each of these dreams she had been with Ron.

She remembered the fear from their time on the run, the fear from two nights ago.

In another world, they might have had something. They might have been something.

Her eyes now swimming with tears, she thought of Harry. No words came to mind, no joyful memories; she felt numb. There was a dull ache deep in her chest as she thought of her best friend. Of what she knew had become of him.

What did she have left to return to?

With Harry dead, the best case scenario would be a life spent in the shadows, always running away after the dark forces that chased her in a ceaseless struggle for survival. More likely, she would be caught in weeks. She had no life to live here.

"Okay."

She reached out her hand for the amulet, which Dumbledore gave her with reluctance.

"You must use it with intent, Miss Granger," he said when she slipped the chain over her head to dangle freely from her neck. "You must prevent this war, whichever way possible. You must destroy Lord Voldemort."

Hermione nodded grimly again, looking at the iridescent blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

She glanced around the room again, this time reaching for and grabbing a candy from the jar before placing it gently in her pocket. Something to remember this place by, no matter how small the token was.

"And Miss Granger..."

Hermione looked over at her former headmaster and, though her head was pounding and tears were welling in her eyes, she found the courage to smile weakly at him.

"Good luck."

"Thank you, Headmaster," said the girl. "You too," she added quickly, though if she were successful he would not need any luck for this world would never have existed.

She thought of her mission then:

I must destroy Lord Voldemort.

The Headmaster's office spun around her, Dumbledore's face growing blurrier as the earth turned round and round until she finally closed her eyes and let the darkness overtake her.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

So what am I doing ? I have no idea! Does this story even have any Tom in it yet ? No, hahahaha, but by next chapter hopefully we'll all see him in his gorgeous evil glory ! Does this even make sense ?

Maybe not because I have no idea how the heck time travel works ! This was just a long ramble about Dumbledore and useless plot points like why do you care? Idk!

but NEXT CHAPTER. Next chapter will be good man oh man I promise we'll get right down to business


	2. Chapter 2

Time traveling left Hermione with the same sort of queasiness as she had felt when she was twelve years old and had wrongfully drunk a glass of cat-hair Polyjuice potion. She had actually done it, then: traveled decades back in time. Her stomach grumbling and her head still decidedly foggy, she stood up and surveyed her surroundings.

Hogwarts's familiar spires greeted her.

She was alone on the grounds in front of the castle, surrounded by a grove of willow trees to her right and the murky waters of the Black Lake to her left. Rubbing her tired face with her hands, Hermione smiled weakly as she realized that she was at least someplace she recognized.

In any other instance, time traveling would have left her at the exact same location she had first been in (that is, the Headmaster's office), but she was unfamiliar with the magic of the amulet she had used. She could have been planted anywhere, she realized. The amulet had done her a favor by putting her squarely in Hogwarts territory. She grasped the chain still snug around her neck.

If it had wanted to do her another favor, it would have taken her back to the 1930s, when Lord Voldemort was still in the orphanage.

Her stomach churned uncomfortably. Could she really kill a child?

It would be easy to destroy a young Voldemort if he had not created any Horcruxes. Though she was unsure as to when exactly his first murder occurred, she knew Myrtle had died sometime in his Hogwarts career. She wasn't sure whether Myrtle's death had resulted in a Horcrux, but she knew that by the time Voldemort graduated his soul had split at least once. This meant that encountering a teenage Voldemort would exacerbate her issues and create multiple problems for her, for she would most certainly have to face him if she wanted to stay at the castle.

And she didn't have anywhere else to go.

Sighing, she looked around at the beautiful, empty lawn and came to the conclusion that it was still summer. No students seemed to be lazily loitering around the campus, and she could barely hear any commotion from the castle itself. Even the lake seemed oddly peaceful and undisturbed; she couldn't hear the calls of the giant squid or any noises from the fish or merfolk. If term had already started, she would have already received some sort of indication by now.

Hermione almost sat down on the tufted grass lawn. It looked so soft, and her bones were tired and weary. She hadn't rested properly in months. Shaking her head, Hermione knew she had to get on track for the task ahead; before she decided to sleep on the foliage, she knew she would have to face the faculty at some point, namely Dumbledore. She was certain he would be teaching already, and he had always held a certain pity for the unfortunate and hapless. The six months she spent on the run with Harry and Ron had hardened her, but she could play the victim well.

She steeled herself for an uncomfortable encounter. If the older Dumbledore were right, she would have to stay in this time for the rest of her life. She couldn't reveal herself to anyone, not even her former headmaster.

As she approached the great entrance doors to the school, they creaked open for her. Surprised, Hermione jumped back but then resolutely composed her features and walked inside.

The entrance hall looked the same. If she turned, she knew she would be able to see the vastness of the Great Hall. Her feet itched to take her to Gryffindor tower and see the common room again. Other than the library, she missed her old common room the most.

Still, as soon as she walked inside, she paused. The doors behind her shut loudly. Would it be unwise to continue walking as if she knew the castle by heart when she was so obviously foreign to its current inhabitants? If it were summer, was Dumbledore even in the castle? He wasn't Headmaster yet, she knew; she had read about Armando Dippet's tenure in her favorite book, _Hogwarts: A History_ , a while ago.

"Hello?" Hermione called out, hoping somebody would hear her.

"Eh?" A gruff voice exclaimed. Out from beneath the darkness hopped a short middle-aged man whose hair seemed to grow like sparse, unwelcome grey weeds on his head. He scowled at her. "Classes don't start for another day! Off with you," he shouted, attempting to shoo her with the handle of a broom.

"It's all right, Pringle," she heard, turning around to face a much younger Albus Dumbledore. His beard was auburn, and he was far less wrinkly. She found it didn't suit him quite as well as old age.

"Excuse me," Hermione began, her forehead creasing with worry. She hadn't thought her background through and was hoping to have at least several minutes more to conjure up a believable cover story.

Dumbledore squinted at her. His eyes seemed clearer than they were when she last saw him, years from now.

Assessing her for a moment, Dumbledore then nodded and smiled at her. "Come with me, child," said the wizard before promptly walking up a tall staircase which, she knew, led to the Transfiguration rooms.

* * *

"I come here seeking your help. Or at least the school's help," Hermione said as Dumbledore shut the door behind him. His office, which was located in the same place McGonagall's was in her own time, appeared to possess the bustling atmosphere Harry had originally described. In the corner of the room, a small iron cage held a brightly colored parakeet who squawked at her entrance. This bird wasn't Fawkes, but it was beautiful nevertheless.

"Oh?" Dumbledore asked in response to her statement, sitting down on a large leather armchair and motioning for her to sit across from him.

"I've been homeschooled for six years," said Hermione, sitting gracefully and flashing Dumbledore a grateful smile. "My parents were wonderful wizards, and they wanted to teach me the ways of the magical world by themselves. They had rather a disdain for institutions." Her eyes darted up to meet his face. Hermione wasn't a bad liar, but she preferred to be as honest as possible; she wanted a background that would stay true to herself while remaining something she could remember and recite at a moment's notice, but she hadn't had much time to plan this story through.

"They were killed last month," she stated, glancing down at her hands, which lay clasped over her lap. This wasn't entirely untrue. Though her parents weren't murdered, she would never see them again. Hermione licked her lips before continuing. "I'm not sure who did it, but it may have been Grindelwald. We were in France when it happened."

"I see," Dumbledore replied, looking thoughtful.

Hermione dared herself to look hopeful. "I've been staying with my Muggle aunt, but she's sick and I'm worried she won't be around for much longer. And I promised my parents that if something happened to them that I would continue my education. I've heard of Hogwarts's reputation, and I wished to ask whether… well, I wanted to know whether it would be possible for me to complete my last year here."

She leaned back in her chair and watched Dumbledore with bated breath. She wondered whether she had gotten the timeline right; Grindelwald was most active in the early 1900s, and if she was indeed in the 1930s as she thought then it wouldn't have been implausible for her parents to be killed by him. And, she reasoned, she had left the murders up for interpretation. If she wasn't certain, then if the facts didn't match with her tale she hoped she could claim ignorance.

Dumbledore looked at her behind his half-moon spectacles. Even now, so many years before she knew him, he exuded an air of magnanimity and knowledge. She felt he could see right through her.

"I didn't quite catch your name, Miss…?"

"Granger," she stated quickly. She couldn't imagine answering to anything else. "Hermione Granger."

She knew there would be no point in lying about her name since she had no other wizarding relatives, and she had already told so many half-truths.

"Well, Miss Granger, I'm sure we can make some arrangements," Dumbledore replied after a moment of quiet deliberation, leaning forward in his chair. "You'll have to see Headmaster Dippet first, of course, and then you will have to be Sorted and obtain your school things. Have you any money?"

"No, my parents had run into some financial problems and my aunt doesn't know anything about the Wizarding world," said Hermione cautiously, cursing herself inwardly for not thinking of this issue before she used the amulet. Granted, she hadn't had any time to take anything but a candy, which she subconsciously felt for in her pocket. The small lump was still there.

Dumbledore frowned but then stood up. "Say no more, Miss Granger. I'm sure the school will be able to loan you a uniform and some books."

"Thank you," she said before looking up at him, unsure whether she should ask the questions still nagging on her mind. "I'm sorry, I've been traveling for some time and I was wondering whether I could ask you the date. And… your name."

"My name is Albus Dumbledore. I'm the head of the Transfiguration department here at Hogwarts," he responded, his eyebrows furrowed. He seemed to glance at her suspiciously. "And it is September 1st, 1944, one day before the start of term."

Hermione stood still. 1944 was over ten years later than the time she had assumed it was and had wanted it to be. Thankfully, her cover story was still plausible. She knew Grindelwald hadn't been defeated until a year later by the very man she was standing next to, but the fact that it was 1944 meant that Voldemort was at Hogwarts.

This posed a very big problem.

"...thank you," said Hermione finally, a question beginning to take shape in her mind. How was she meant to destroy Voldemort if he were her classmate?

She wanted to hurl.

* * *

Armando Dippet was very old. He had only three stray wisps of hair left on his head and seemed as if he had lost all energy decades ago.

"Hogwarts is a beautiful school," she said upon greeting him and shaking his thin, pockmarked hand. His face looked stern and was marked with hundreds of infinitesimal wrinkles, but he sat up higher after her compliment.

"It is indeed a sight to behold," Dippet agreed. "We should get right down to business, Miss Granger. Do you know anything of the four Houses?"

"Some," Hermione lied. She knew everything there was to know about Hogwarts and its history, but it would be suspicious to reveal that. "I know their names: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, named after the four founders of the school."

"Correct." The headmaster looked pleased. "All students must be Sorted into a house upon their arrival to the school. This typically occurs during their first year, but seeing as you are only now joining us, we shall have to do it now before the official school year begins."

Hermione nodded, secretly happy to be Sorted again. She was eager to hear the Sorting Hat's convictions and already yearned for the comfort of the Gryffindor common room.

"Accio Sorting Hat!"

The frayed old witch's hat flew into Dippet's arms, and he stood up before placing it gently on top of her head.

The hat began to speak to her in a hoarse voice:

 _Interesting. Very interesting. It seems as if you've been Sorted before, though I have no record of your initial placement. What were you… a Gryffindor?_

She held the hat firmly on top of her bushy hair, hoping the Hat would recognize her nod without alerting Headmaster Dippet. She had almost forgotten it could read her thoughts.

 _Yes… I can sense the bravery in you. And the intellect. You would make a fine Ravenclaw, you know. Such curiosity!_

This did not surprise her. The Sorting Hat had said the very same things during her first Sorting, and although she agreed that she possessed many Ravenclaw traits, she thought it made the best choice upon Sorting her in Gryffindor. She had met Harry and Ron there, after all.

Hermione covered up her sniffling and her already reddening eyes with an abrupt cough.

 _I see your ambitions, too, and what fine ambitions they are. And you certainly have no lack of cunning or resourcefulness, not to mention your complete disregard for the rules._

She paused. Those traits puzzled her. Though she knew she possessed them in the foreground of her mind, her own ambitions always seemed meaningless when helping Harry fight Lord Voldemort. In a way, she had taken his goals as her own.

 _It'll have to be…_

"Slytherin!"

Hermione swatted the hat away from her, her wide brown eyes growing startled. She reached up to wipe the sweat clamming up her forehead, and she frantically rubbed her eyes as if willing the outcome of the hat to be washed away.

Slytherin? That was the last house she thought she would be Sorted in!

For the second time in a day, Hermione wanted to puke.

How could this be?

She was so sure of her placement that she hadn't even bothered to think of any other options. She was a Gryffindor through and through; she had been a Gryffindor her entire life and identified so much with the house that she wasn't sure whether she had imagined the Sorting Hat's proclamation.

Her racing thoughts were interrupted by Dippet's firm voice.

"I'll have our caretaker, Apollyon Pringle, escort you to the Slytherin common room. You'll find your books and uniform in the dormitory as well as some spare coins for you to buy a few items of clothing."

Hermione nodded numbly.

"Oh, and the password is 'Basilisk'."

* * *

Though she knew Pringle was not Filch, the resemblances between them were striking. They both looked foul and seemed to hate their jobs, relishing only in doling out detentions to the students. As far as Hermione remembered, Pringle was the caretaker that specializing in giving out corporal punishments to the students when they misbehaved. Hermione shuddered. It seemed barbaric.

When Dippet called for Pringle to take her to the Slytherin common room, he showed up muttering expletives to himself and looked very disgruntled to have been disturbed.

Idly, as he walked in front of her to lead the way to the dungeons, she wondered what he could have been doing that was so important.

The bottom of his robes, which were tattered and ratty, dragged behind him and were covered in some sort of dark soot. It left a thin coating of dust wherever he went. Hermione had half a mind to inform him that he was dirtying the castle up for himself to clean up later, but instead she followed silently.

She doubted he would have appreciated it.

After several minutes, they stood in front of a stone wall in a dark corridor in the dungeon. Hermione had only been in this wing of the school for her Potions class, but even then she had never ventured far into the dungeon itself. When she was younger, it scared her; the dim green lighting made the castle's lowest floor look like it was haunted.

"'Ere," Pringle said, frowning at her before proceeding to walk away. She almost turned back around to tell him the Sorting Hat had made a mistake, but instead she took a deep breath and mumbled the password.

The stone wall slid open to reveal a slightly better lit corridor, which Hermione reluctantly made her way through until she came face to face with a wooden door which proved to be the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

When she opened the door, she looked around the largely green, sunken room, complete with its black and purple leather-backed armchairs, skulls decorating the windows which she realized, startled, faced the Black Lake, and the ornate tapestries of famous wizards decorating the wall. The Slytherin dungeon was certainly beautiful, she had to admit, but it lacked warmth.

Sighing, Hermione closed the door behind her and sat down in a velvet armchair facing the fire, which seemed to be the brightest part of the dungeon.

She finally let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding before tilting her head slightly to better examine the common room. However, when she swiveled around she realized someone was sitting on the armchair next to her.

Hermione's mouth opened in shock but she made no noise other than a small whimper in the back of her throat.

Sitting before her was a man who looked around her age, his handsome face framed by thick dark hair. In the ghostly green light, his pale skin almost seemed to shine. Closing her mouth, Hermione placed a hand across her chest in an attempt to slow down her heightened heartbeat.

The boy's brilliant white teeth glimmered as he smiled wide at her. "I'm Tom Riddle," he said simply. His voice reminded her of molasses, smooth and dark.

Hermione blinked at him and proceeded to vomit all over the floor.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I didn't want to stuff any more crap into this chapter because it's only the beginning, but I hope you all enjoyed it!

I know there still isn't a lot of Tom, but that'll definitely change soon enough.

Also, this is my first foray into a longer fanfiction so if I do something awful just let me know! Actually, just let me know your opinions regardless of what they are!

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

The ground swirling in a kaleidoscope of poisonous color beneath her (bile green, twisted rotten yellow), Hermione turned her head to the boy, now beside her, an expression of utmost concern plastered on his face.

"Are you okay?"

Swallowing down fluid, or saliva, or more bile, Hermione grabbed her wand and cast a silent cleaning spell. She had barely heard him address her; she didn't want to listen to his empty platitudes about how desperately worried he was about the state of her stomach. Clutching her forehead with her left hand, Hermione dry-heaved for a moment longer, noticing a pale blur of hands on the edge of her vision, and as she doubled over in an attempt to purge herself of this time, of this man, she felt those same hands grab hold of and gather her hair behind her head.

Hermione heaved again. Nothing. Casting another scourgify just to be safe, she quickly shook the boy's hands off her and stood, gasping for breath. He took a step back, arms now crossed in front of his chest.

"Perhaps I ought to take you to the Hospital Wing?"

That voice was laced so carefully with such concern that if Hermione didn't know any better, she would have thought he were genuine. Her entire body shook.

"I'm fine," she blurted out. Hermione couldn't bring herself to thank him for whatever it was he wanted to help her with, whether it was taking her to the Hospital Wing or holding her hair so gently while she vomited at the sight of him.

"Well, if you need anything, please don't be afraid to come to me."

Trying to calm herself, Hermione continued nodding like a bobble-head while she ran up the stairs to what she hoped was the girls' dormitory.

* * *

When she reached the top of the stairs, Hermione opened an ornate door with a serpent-styled doorknob and stepped foot in the Slytherin girls' dormitory.

Like the common room, this room was decked in dark, cool colors; the walls were a deep, radiant purple, and silk silver sheets lined the five beds in the dormitory. Similar adornments lay on the large bay window, which too faced the Great Lake. Hermione could hear the water lapping the glass.

The dormitory smelt like dark musty puddles and smoky perfume, something deeper and more earthy than what she had been used to in the dormitory she had called home for years.

Sighing deeply, she made her way to the bed farthest from the door and plopped down face-first onto an embroidered green pillow. She was exhausted. Turning so that her stomach faced the ceiling, Hermione placed her hands (which she realized were trembling faintly) on her thighs and closed her eyes.

Tears, unbidden, immediately sprung and sat like dewdrops amidst her lashes.

She had not even been here a day and yet everything already seemed to be falling apart into thousands of infinitesimal pieces. She had been Sorted into the wrong house: not just the wrong house, but the worst house, the house of her childhood rivals and now the most bitter of her enemies. She did not belong here, in this room of extravagant colors and rich bedding. There was no comfort here.

The Gryffindor dormitory had been warm; though it had its flaws, there had always been a sense of tenderness there which Slytherin lacked.

She did not belong in the dim light of the dungeons, staring wan at a flickering blue fireplace and certainly she did not belong in a chair next to the man she had come to destroy.

Lord Voldemort.

Tom Riddle.

She had dared to hope that she wouldn't meet him here, that she would see him as a child and confront him then, or even if she had to lay eyes on him sooner, that it wouldn't be here, not now.

She hadn't even been here a day.

She had been foolish, she knew, to dream of an easy battle. Still, she hadn't thought she would see him the day of her arrival, speaking with her so casually, even comforting her while she heaved at the sight of him.

And what a sight; she had known, had heard the descriptions of a young man who was once handsome, but yet there remained an urge to scoff and paint him as the red-eyed snake she had known him as. It would have been easier, she thought, if he had not looked so young, so human.

Sitting up, Hermione brushed away the tears that had escaped down her cheeks and pursed her lips thinly. She had run into some dilemmas, yes, but if she was one thing, she was resolute. She was smart. There was no reason Tom Riddle's presence here should derail her plans if she only thought carefully.

In fact, having him so close might only make him more accessible.

* * *

Within moments of sitting up, Hermione noticed a plain brown leather bag to the side of her bed, which she assumed contained the school supplies she had been promised. She glanced through it for a minute. A school uniform was provided for her; it didn't look much different from the one she was used to, but the ties that accompanied it now gleamed green and silver rather than red and gold. She murmured disappointedly at the color scheme before hefting out a pile of heavy books. A piece of parchment paper flew out of the first tome and landed on her lap.

She realized suddenly that she hadn't yet had time to pick a schedule or even prove her OWL scores, yet when she unrolled the parchment she realized all the classes she had wanted to take before she had thought a seventh year at Hogwarts would be impossible were scrawled on the paper. Somehow, it seemed the walls of this school knew her mind better than she could communicate it.

Before hunting for Horcruxes with Harry and Ron, she had been looking forward to spending her seventh year studying Advanced Arithmancy or NEWT-level Charms and Transfiguration. Frankly, she had wanted to take every class available to her, though the thought of using a Time Turner again left her queasy.

Humming happily, Hermione perused the books (many of which she recognized) until a soft knock at the door interrupted her.

She frowned, realizing at once that there were only a handful of possibilities as to the identity of the knocker, and the most likely of all was extremely unappealing to her. _Play nice,_ she warned herself. _You do not want negative attention._

Steeling herself for another unpleasant encounter, Hermione stood from her bed and opened the door.

Standing before her was the solemn face of Tom Riddle. She nodded at him, not even attempting a smile, and he walked into the room.

Hermione could barely hide her surprise. Though she originally wondered why he was even able to get up the stairs, she reckoned every house had a security measure against boys entering the girls' dormitory. Seemingly Slytherin was no master of propriety; there were no such security measures here. She eyed Tom Riddle as he gingerly, like a shrewd cat, sat at the edge of her bed.

"I hope you're feeling better," he said to her suddenly, turning his face to look at her.

Hermione was struck again by how _alive_ he looked, how the corners of his mouth curved up as he spoke, how his dark eyes, like obsidian, contrasted with the whiteness of his skin, and how, when he spoke, his voice emerged like a quiet rumble. The sheer humanness of him frightened her, scared her even more than it would have to see him as he were, as he would be decades from now.

"I am," she replied, her voice cool. She couldn't bring herself to speak more than abrupt syllables to him; though the urge to vomit had left her, her stomach still churned uncomfortably.

"I'm glad," said Tom Riddle, and he smiled. His teeth were white and sharp. "I don't believe I quite caught your name."

She resisted the urge to tell him she hadn't said it, was too busy vomiting at his appearance to introduce herself. Gritting her teeth, she answered, "It's Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"That's beautiful."

Her stomach churned again, and Hermione gripped the edge of the door until her knuckles turned white. "Thank you," was the only thing she could say in return, and even that had been hard to spit out.

It was foolish, but all she could think of was hurling the Killing Curse at him: two words and she would be done with the entire ordeal, if she could stomach a lifetime in Azkaban and possibly a savage twist of fate, seeing as he had likely already created a Horcrux.

"Well, I'll leave you be. It was nice meeting you, Hermione," Riddle stated, and she slackened her grip on the door to let him leave the room. When she couldn't see the outline of him anymore, she slammed the door shut.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Sorry for taking so long to get this chapter up; I know it's short, but I wanted to give you guys something to propel the plot at least a bit.

I hope you enjoy it!


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione stood like that, her head against the door, for a few silent minutes. She tried to calm her breathing and the pit-patter beat of her heart, but when she placed three fingers on her wrist, she felt her pulse accelerating. Finally, she slumped down on the floor and kicked her legs out before placing her head dejectedly in her hands.

This was how it was.

There was little point in moping. She knew that if she let herself be sad for even a moment longer than was necessary, there would be no getting rid of that feeling. It had not even been a day since her arrival and already she had so much to mourn. She needed to do something.

Climbing back into bed, Hermione leafed through the pile of books she had left there before coming across a crinkly leather notebook. The school had been kind enough to give her this; whatever lukewarm reprieve it was, it would be useful.

Her scribbles were neat as she tested the black quill and pot of ink attached to the notebook. There was something about writing on a new sheet of paper, something new and clean and invigorating, akin to the purification of drenching oneself in running waters. It felt almost as if, by writing something here, she was transcribing her fears and sorrows and worries and ending with something like a clean slate, or as similar to a clean slate as she could get at this point.

It looked like a diary. She had known only one person who kept a diary like this one, but the other had been defiled long ago. With a start, Hermione looked down at the notebook and realized that this Horcrux had already likely been created.

Swallowing, she could only write two words:

 _Destroy it._

Shutting the notebook on its binding, Hermione released a long, deep breath and turned back to search the bag again. In the bottom, she found a few coins: no more than four Galleons total.

She could buy something nice for four Galleons, something beautiful she could cherish in this forsaken time. A book, she thought immediately, or something to remind her of home. Of Harry and Ron.

She gritted her teeth. The dim light in the dungeon was making her head ache, her temples throbbing angrily. Clothing would be more practical. And she needed to be practical.

Without bothering to clean up her scattered pile of textbooks, Hermione grabbed the coins and, holding them tightly with her left hand, left the dormitory. The common room was empty (a tiny blessing) and the fire had gone out, sinking the room into an eerie darkness.

Traversing the common room was like walking through a maze, but Hermione's light feet maneuvered to the door and then out the dungeons to the light. Hogwarts looked strange, empty, but once she left the basement it still seemed like home to her; the grooves in the bricks and the hairline cracks in the floor were familiar and comforting.

It hadn't changed much in fifty years.

Smiling slightly, Hermione clutched the coins tighter in her palm and left the castle, making her way down the well-trodden path to Hogsmeade.

She saw its outline clearly from the grounds; the patchwork village looked picturesque, roofs like tortoise shells cutting a fine edge in the horizon. Hogwarts was steady, ancient, and though she knew Hogsmeade to be comparatively younger she couldn't imagine the quiet town looked any different one thousand years ago.

As she walked, Hermione took comfort in that: in the nature that surrounded her, in the firmness of these certain implacable things. Like the seasons, they changed but they never transformed beyond necessity. Once you knew Hogwarts and the streets of Hogsmeade, you knew them, whether or not you saw them fifty years apart.

Hermione came to a stop in the center of the village. As she looked around, she saw many of the same establishments: the Three Broomsticks looked as inviting as ever, Honeydukes stood testament to humanity's stubborn love of candy, and Gladrags Wizardwear was open and filled with all sorts of wizarding clothing. Other shops, like Zonko's and Dervish and Bangs, were noticeably missing; Hermione felt a distinct pang in her chest as she thought of their absence.

Though she felt a niggling urge to explore the rest of the village, Hermione knew she needed to buy some clothing at Gladrags to at least have something other than the school uniform to wear.

Tinkling bells chimed to signify her entrance into the store, which she ignored in favor of perusing the racks of clothing nearest to her. Casual wizarding fashion didn't look very different from Muggle wear, but Hermione wasn't in the nineties anymore, she thought as she handled a floral-patterned dress with a grimace. The fashion of the day was much more dainty and feminine than what she was used to. If she had the option, Mrs. Weasley's thick knit argyle sweaters were all she wore for days at a time.

These dresses didn't suit her.

Stiff-backed and delicate, the clothing reminded her of that which fifties housewives would wear; Hermione briefly wondered whether Gladrags sold aprons and baking gloves to complete the ensembles. Closing her eyes and sighing as she twirled halfheartedly in front of a shiny mirror, she realized her own deprecating thoughts weren't very far from the truth of the manner.

There had been certain rights she had enjoyed as a woman in her timeline that she wasn't certain would be carried over here, in a place so oddly familiar and yet damagingly backwards and contrary to her own. Wizarding culture had always been more conservative than its Muggle equivalent, but the reality of living in the 1940s was not one Hermione took to kindly.

She grit her teeth. She was nothing if not an activist, and the idea of blending into docility was frightening, but until she finished what she set out to do it would be much more clever to not bring too much attention to herself.

After ringing up her clothing (she had bought two casual dresses, a simple black skirt, and a woolen sweater for comfort), Hermione left the clothing store and was left to her own devices.

She hadn't much money left, only a Sickle and several Knuts, but it would be enough for Honeydukes.

The shop looked just as it did when she had last seen it, filled with such a wondrous and dizzying assortment of sweets and otherwise interesting confections that Hermione found herself grinning for the first time since her arrival.

As she sampled chocolate frogs and cockroach clusters, courtesy of a beaming young employee, she felt an overwhelming sense of calmness and lucidity overcome her. This store was safe: a haven of well-known comfort and happiness.

Just as she was about to buy a chocolate frog and several packs of sugar quills, she heard the door open and a cheerful tune burst forth from it to announce the arrival of a new customer. The employee, whose nametag read "Karl", smiled wide and waved the customer over.

"We've just received a new shipment of cauldron cakes, fresh from Polly's kitchen. I know how much you like them, Tom."

"Thank you," purred a voice alarmingly close to her ear.

She turned around to a dreaded sight less than a foot away from her. Immediately, her mood darkened. Even though she had divined something like this happening, Hermione felt a growing sense of alarm. Had he followed her here?

Tom turned to look at her then, his dark eyes trailing over her figure just quickly enough to not seem improper before resting solidly to meet her own. Under the bright colors of Honeydukes, he seemed out of place. He looked like he belonged in a dimly-lit mansion or beneath the frames of an old black and white photograph, something rich and almost sinister.

Even Hermione could admit he possessed an aristocratic beauty; she would be hard pressed to find a person who wouldn't find him at least objectively attractive.

If she weren't so physically repulsed by him, she would even think him appealing.

Turning away, as if scolded by her own thoughts, Hermione nodded politely at him before moving to make a quick exit.

Before she could get two steps in, she was held back by a pale wrist gently clasping her own. Hermione stopped. She felt a burning, an itching on the point of contact that trailed goosebumps up her arm even when Tom had let go.

"I will see you at the common room," said he, his voice soft. She noticed he asked her no question but instead issued a command. He was only seventeen, she realized, and already he spoke like he was above her.

Gulping down her shallow breaths, Hermione spoke in the steadiest manner she could muster. "Yes, I reckon you will."

When she left the store she could still feel a tingling on her arms.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Sorry for being such a crappy author and for writing such short chapters, lol. I've been struggling to get the words out even though I have the plot pretty much all summarized. I hope you all enjoy it nevertheless!


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